in the dark. there are only the colors that pretend to listen. long paths carry on their murders. one confession at a time. the simple funeral of touch buries what remains of expectation.
the road resolves to how far we've come. a curious equation. more circumstance than science.
the pictures take us. and we are taken by them. the corners are stubbron. false gods with their fingers on the apocalypse.
the years she's spent on how. all of them worthless.
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